Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling, Bloomsbury books, Warner Bros and various other companies. No profit was made from this work.
WARNING: This fic may be somewhat disturbing to a few readers. It contains themes of an adult nature that should be covered by the rating. Please note Harry is depicted as 'a little' out of character, as far as the canon is concerned. On the other hand, Harry Potter was never meant to be a realistic, and therefore never supposed to show the more likely possibilites and consequences to some of the more awful happenings. That said, this fic shows one possibility of how Harry might attempt to regain his power after what happened in the Department of Mysteries.
Authour's Note: This is my first posted fic, but was just a random thought that occured to me after reading an insane!Harry fic. I am working on a far longer story, that will start to be posted soon. As creative writing is very new to me (as opposed to dry scientific reports), please offer constructive critism where possible.
Also, this fic will make a lot more sense on the second reading.
Black Thoughts
Sweat broke across his brow. Harry didn't even notice, pushing himself harder and faster. A face had been haunting his dreams and dogging his waking thoughts, ever beyond his grasp, yet he chased it still.
His pace quickened.
That face. That voice.
He could still hear it ringing in his ears. Harsh. Grating. Yet sometimes, in the silence of the night with only his heartbeat for company, it slithered seductively, caressing his ears. Driving him mad.
Pain. He ignored it, driving forward as if to purge the thoughts from his mind. Always forward. Looking back was too painful.
As if he could forget. Sirius. That bitch took him. A guttural snarl escaped him. Pain. Oh yes, She would feel pain. His fondest dreams were of him laughing above Her, as that bitch writhed under his Curaticus. Relishing Her torment.
Lately, his dreams had changed. Now She also writhed under him in pleasure. Oh yes, there was still pain. There was always some pain. The thirst for punishment had never waned though the pleasure. On the contrary, the pleasure made it worse. It just made him hate Her more.
Punishment. Grunting, he pushed himself harder, trying to vent the anger and frustration that refused to leave him.
A cry from underneath brought him back to himself.
He looked down, already knowing what he would see. Under him, the visage of Bellatrix Lestrange was a twisted mask of pain and pleasure.
He continued driving himself forward. Looking at her as dispassionately as he was capable of, he realized he knew every inch of Her. It was burned irrevocably into his memory. A hundred years from now he would still remember. A hundred years was not nearly enough to forget Her.
"Do I mean it!" He demanded, pumping faster.
"Harry, I… I…" she gasped, unable to form words.
The eyes that stared back were glassy, unfocused. Clear thought vanished as a wave of irrational rage consumed him. How dare she escape from him into the depths of her mind!
"Answer me bitch!"
"Y…ye…" Breathlessly, she tried to reassure him.
"Tell me if I mean it!" He screamed at her, spittle raining down on her sweat soaked form.
"Y-you mean it! You – ah - mean it!" she shrieked.
His muscles spasmed in response, finding release. He rode the tide of pleasure to its empty conclusion. As it always was, empty and meaningless. And ultimately unsatisfying.
He pulled out, closing his robes. It was none too soon; he could already see the potion had run its course.
He turned away heading for his firewhiskey, never liking to watch what followed.
On the bed she was still panting, but the telltale tingling would be all too familiar to her by now. As always, she momentarily forgot her exhaustion looking around, seeking a reflective surface to slake her curiosity.
Harry snorted into his drink, amused. Did she really think him that stupid? Despite what others may say, he learned quickly. He had taken precautions after the first one. A quick obliviate had solved that problem.His brow furrowed, that seemed so long ago now. What number in his bed was this one? It was too confusing to keep a track of them, for obvious reasons. Truthfully, he didn't care. After all, they kept coming back.
Movement on the edge of his vision kicked in trained reflexes, and involuntarily he spared her a glance.
The long ebony hair was shrinking in length, just as her frame diminished and features changed.
Cursing, he averting his gaze. He busied himself silently placing strong locking charms around a small silver box. The folded strands of long ebony hair it contained were his most guarded possessions. Not hair from the girl's on the bed. No, her hair had already reconfigured itself back to its original red. The valuable hair in the box he had found on the ground of the Department of Mysteries, and never failed to provide the template; no matter how briefly.
"She has black hair." The unspoken question echoed loudly in the dark room.
His mood took a turn for the worse as irritation bubbled up from within. Why couldn't they just leave? Why did they always have to impose their own presences? They were just supposed to be Her. Was that too hard?
He sighed. He was still unsatisfied. How could he be, when She was out there? These pale imitations relived the pressure, but they solved nothing.
"Get out." Back turned, he took a long pull of firewhiskey. He didn't want to see the girl's face, not afterwards. For now, only one face was allowed to occupy his thoughts.
Soft footfalls crossed the room behind him. He ignored her, contemplating the silver box in front of him over the amber liquid in his glass. The spirals and whorls engraved on the silver were strangely bewitching, flowing together and apart, hinting at a pattern that he could never find. Just like Her.
He felt the girl pause in the doorway. Yet another unspoken question echoed in te silent room.
This one he answered.
"Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow." She nodded, closing the door behind her.
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